I Fought So Hard To Free You
by L'Ange de Mort
Summary: A Leroux-based AU exploring what might have happened, had Raoul become prematurely acquainted with Erik at the New Year's Masked Ball. Revived after long hiatus, soon to be completed.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** We don't need to tell you this, but you know, it's just here. We don't own 'Phantom of the Opera', though we would like to. That belongs to Gaston Leroux and the rest of the wonderful (or not so wonderful… coughcoughFORSYTHEcoughcough…) geniuses who have brought this story to life. Don't bother suing us; we don't make a penny off this.

**Summary: **Raoul and Erik take their rivalry into their own hands.

**I Fought So Hard To Free You:** by _Lady Death & L'Ange de Folie_

* * *

At last the black domino came to a stop and ushered the white domino quietly through the door of a private box. The white domino unmasked himself immediately, feeling absolutely foolish in his designated costume. This simple action reveal Raoul, le Vicomte de Chagny to his companion. Contrastingly, the black domino insisted upon remaining masked. _A pity_, the young man thought. It was no secret that Christine Daaé was an attractive and lovely woman.

Oh, there was so much he wanted to tell her, to ask her, to discuss with her! Her sudden and lengthy disappearance had horrified him, and the sudden urgent note she had flung to him while dashing by a carriage through the Bois with a mysterious man at her side had not improved matters. As it was she who insisted upon the meeting, he hoped she had some answers for him, or information at least.

However, something inside him was dreading the conference for reasons he could not explain. Deeply, he prayed that she would not confer upon him words of consolation as she sent him off on his way while she ran off with another suitor. He didn't think he could live with that.

"Christine?" he asked hopefully. "I've been wishing to speak with you."

She ignored him, suddenly glancing out of the door, listening intently.

"He must have gone up," she murmured. But as she listened harder, her eyes widened and she exclaimed: "No! He is coming down again!"

Raoul saw easily over her shoulder, a familiar ghastly figure moving slowly across his line of sight. The recognition dawned in his mind.

The death's head of Perros-Guirec! The man who played upon the violin, who enchanted Christine and himself. The man who masqueraded as her Angel of Music; who hid and simpered behind her dressing room mirror! The man whose influence caused Christine to treat him so coldly! That hideous death's head of Perros!

Though only a glimpse, he felt himself filled with outraged passion and indignation.

This man would explain everything that Christine would not or could not tell him.

Without warning, and before Christine could prevent him, Raoul dashed impetuously through the doorway and down the hall to the magnificent Red Death that descended the grand staircase of the Palais Garnier.

The man's evasion at Perros was not enough to deter him. He was not going to escape him another time!

"Raoul!" Christine's voice called from behind him and he could hear her running after him. "Raoul, please, no!"

It gave him pause, but not for long. Christine's mysterious lover would not remain such a secret any longer.

The magnificent costume of Erik's Red Death was far too overblown in Raoul's eyes. It was a spectacular procession of morbidity colored by scarlet with the long, velvet cloak trailing after, embroidered elaborately in gold thread. Then there was that ridiculously extravagant feather to be dealt with, perched frothily upon a large hat looking like something he had seen in illustrations of pirates in a romantic novel; the whole crimson assemblage lounging on a terrifyingly real and fluid death's head.

What a coward this man was to hide behind a mask!

But he would unmask him for the scoundrel that he was, to show her what sort of man this lover of hers was! For Christine's honor if anything else!

"Raoul! Please! No! Come back!"

He ignored Christine, cutting through the thick, whirling melee of the crowd. The Red Death's shock appeal had been worn and the former looks of horror had melted seamlessly into looks of appreciation as he cut leisurely through the crowd.

Raoul plowed through the confusion, no longer caring if any person caught sight of him in his absurd white domino.

He would catch him! He would! And this man – the Red Death, Christine's lover, the Angel of Music; whatever he called himself! – he would not escape!

He neared closer to the man in question, oblivious to the exact moment of when he lost his partner domino to the surging sea of dancers. Another few steps, and… there!

Raoul caught Red Death by the edge of his billowy, red sleeve, who immediately turned. Just as quickly, Raoul found his wrist ensnared by a hard, vice-like bony hand applying terrible pressure in growing increments.

He did not allow the pain to deter him and he glared defiantly up at that fine-fashioned mask with its glowing, yellow eyes. Christine's mysterious lover seemed to recognize him and he ripped Raoul's hand from his ghastly apparel, but did not thrust him to the marble flooring as he had to the unfortunate drunkard during his first appearance.

They stood there for a short moment as the carefree dancers ebbed and flowed about their immobile forms, still moving to the beat as Saint-Saën's "Danse Macabre" reached its fevered peak. Raoul refused to move, his face set.

Christine's so-called Angel of Music stared back with a chilling look, until suddenly his eyes glinted with intrigue. The great, hideous head jerked to the direction of their right in an undeniable motion of beckoning.

Come along, the man's strange eyes seemed to say.

And he did.

Away from the noise and population of the masque he was led, down one increasingly dim corridor after another. Down a small staircase and back up another, the sounds of the masquerade because to drift away, until they had reached a part of the opera Raoul had never seen before.

A single, low burning lamp against the wall was all that illuminated the deserted hallway. Its brilliance ebbed and flowed, the flame twitching, diminishing, then augmenting like the embers of a dying fire. The last barely audible strains of distorted music from the central fête filtered in distantly through the walls, giving the place an overall eerie, isolated feel.

He would not be intimidated.

"And what business do you have in disturbing me, monsieur le vicomte?" Red Death asked at length, stopping suddenly at the end of the hall. The scarce light emphasized and cast intimidating, flickering shadows off the impressive costume causing the death's head mask to look somehow more hideous and more menacing than in full light.

"My business is with Christine," Raoul declared, sounding with more bravado than he felt in reality. "You are a fiend, monsieur, and I intend to unmask you!"

The Red Death smirked. "Oh? And what have I done to deserve such an ignominious title?"

"You have taken advantage of the credulous trust of an innocent young woman!" Raoul said, drawing himself up to his full height. The Red Death seemed to looming over him, making him feel as a small child.

"I have done nothing of the sort." The other's voice lilted with amusement, but there was a subtle, dangerously defensive undercurrent. "I have merely tutored Mademoiselle Daaé's voice and established myself as benefactor in her career. Surely there is no harm in that?"

"Does your role of benefactor also entitle you to take your protégé on walks in the Bois?" Raoul demanded.

"No, my role of benefactor does not happen to cover that particular area," the Red Death said, his voice businesslike and matter-of-fact, yet tinged with a mischievous air that did not put Raoul at ease. "However, when two people love each other as much as we do… Is it not natural for them to accompany each other through the Bois?"

The vicomte's jaw worked, but nothing came of it. "Love…?"

"Oh, yes," the Red Death said; leering, gloating almost. "Love. Christine loves me for who I am, and I her. But, you look incredulous, Monsieur le Victome! You've gone quite pale… You don't believe me? Ask Mademoiselle Daaé, then, if you think I lack credible witness! She will tell you the truth!"

"You've… you've seduced her," Raoul said, his voice faltering; confused. This had to be a mistake – a horrible mistake. Christine was supposed to be this man's prisoner… not his lover…

Red Death smirked at him, or at least it looked as if he were smirking. "Seduced her? Silly, impudent boy! I have done nothing of the sort. As I told you before, Christine loves me for myself! I have not coerced her into anything!"

"Enough!" Raoul's breathing had quickened, but through anger or fear, he could not tell. "Stop hiding behind that mask – it doesn't frighten me! I want to know the face of my rival, if nothing else!"

A low, chilling laugh reverberated throughout the corridor, seeming to come out of the walls themselves. Raoul looked around for the source, a tremor tickling up his spine until he realized with sudden bewilderment that it was coming from Red Death himself.

"I love the masquerade balls, don't you?" Red Death asked, still chuckling. "It is the one occasion of the year where every person in the room is an equal and are accepted as such. No one looks different, and certainly no one looks strange. Anyone can come if they like, looking any way they like. No one is given a second glance."

He paused reflectively. "Incidentally, monsieur, I wear no mask."

Raoul looked up at the skull-like face skeptically, shaking his head. Then, an unpleasant nauseating shock surged through his stomach as his mind made the sudden transition of accepting what he originally thought to be an impeccably made mask as reality. He stared at the thin, sickly pale skin, the gaping cavity of a nose, the eerie glowing eyes, and the amused grin imprinted in the facial expression with a realness that no mask could ever mimic.

"_Mon Dieu_," he swore, feeling the color drain from his face. His mind still reached for explanations as to why such wretched human deformity could even possibly exist.

"Not quite," came the ready response. Suddenly, those sunken golden eyes flickered to focus on something unseen beyond the vicomte's shoulder. He smiled. "Ah, and here is our lady of the night, now."

Raoul whirled about to see Christine in her black domino, moving quickly in their direction. "Christine!"

She ignored him, moving straight to the Red Death. "Erik!"

"Erik?" The vicomte repeated automatically in confusion.

"Yes, 'Erik'," the Red Death said smugly to the vicomte, as Christine joined him at his crimson clad side. "That is my name."

"Erik, please," she entreated urgently, laying a pale hand timidly on his sleeve. "We should go… please, let's leave…"

"Is it true, Christine?" Raoul asked, his voice trembling only to the most astute listener. "Is it true what he says? That you love him?"

Christine's face turned an ill-colored white and stared at Raoul with deer-like eyes: glassy and panicked. She seemed speechless, confused, torn; but Raoul steeled himself against what he saw. Christine had lied to him, or at least had led him on to believe she loved him. There was a painful twisting in his chest, which upset him more than he would admit.

"I…" Her voice slipped up an octave, shaking badly. She turned to look at Erik – Red Death, her voice professor, the Angel of Music, who was observing the scene with intense amusement -- then back to Raoul. "…I - I do care for Erik very much, Raoul…"

Raoul could hardly contain the stabbing agony that knifed through his chest at those words. So, she loved another, when he himself loved her! She loved her mysterious Erik and not her poor, unhappy Raoul. Oh, Christine! Had he not considered her to be an honest woman? Well, certainly now at this moment he believed her to be as such. It provided full explanation of her recent mysterious and troubling behavior.

She didn't love him. He felt he would die as a result.

Christine turned away from Raoul and began to tug on the Red Death's sleeve. "Erik, please…"

Erik gently displaced her touch from his clothing with a kindly hand, gazing down at her with adoration. "Yes, Christine?"

"Please, let us leave," she implored. "The party has given me a headache and I want to go home."

"Can we not stay for a little longer?" Erik asked, his voice sweet and cajoling. "I dearly love masked balls and they only come but once a year…"

"Oh, Erik," Christine continued, the startled sound of sudden epiphany in her voice. "Before we left for the ball, hadn't you said that there was something you wished to tell me? Let us go home so we can talk."

"You are quite right, Christine," Erik said, a smile on his face as Christine glanced over her shoulder at her Vicomte. He returned her gaze back to him with an expert, guiding finger barely touching her pale skin. "However, the privacy of my home is not necessary for a matter such as this..."

"No?" There was a trace of fear in Christine's voice.

"Oh, no." The Red Death looked beyond Christine's small shoulder to Raoul who was beginning to feel as if he no longer existed beyond sidelong glances. "I believe that this could be done right here."

Without another word, he slipped a plain gold ring off one of his bony fingers and held it out to her. "Christine, I must give you this ring. I give you back your liberty on condition that this ring is always on your finger. As long as you keep it, you will be protected against all danger and Erik will remain your friend. But woe to you if you ever part with it…." He leaned closer to her, whispering something unheard beyond her delicate ear. Christine went pale and started away from him, but acquiescently accepted the ring, slipping it onto her own white hand.

Raoul felt his face flush with anger. Had the man any principle at all? What had he divulged so secretly to Christine's hearing alone? What could it have been? While Erik professed to love Christine, how was it possible that he could claim to love her and not see how he scared her?

And as he saw the way Christine shrank from Erik, he felt triumph. Perhaps she did not love Erik as much as she said, or as much as Erik said; perhaps there were doubts. Perhaps there was still hope!

While his surety of Christine's love may have been currently compromised, the certainty of his own continued love for her was far from impaired. And as such, he was free to act within those bonds, even if Christine was still constrained by the shackles of the dangerous game she played.

"You scoundrel!" Raoul burst out, angry to begin with and further insulted that this Angel of Music had audacity enough for such conduct before another individual. "You threaten her!"

"What nonsense…" Erik sneered.

"You cannot pressure a woman to wear your ring, monsieur," Raoul continued, trembling with anger. "It is simply not done this way."

"Raoul, please, do not get involved--"

"No, Christine," the young vicomte said firmly, his blue eyes meeting hers. "I _must_ become involved. He is manipulating you and I shall not stand for it any longer. Though I know you do not love me, it is still my duty as a friend to protect you from miscreants."

He rose to his full height and met the unnatural black holes of Erik's eyes. "Monsieur, I formally challenge you to a duel for Christine's honor."

An exceedingly awkward pause followed after. In that silence, the deeply chilling laugh of the Red Death sounded again. "I think monsieur has had too much champagne, but if this is what he wishes…"

"No, Erik, please!" Christine begged. "This is irrational--"

"What are the conditions of this duel, monsieur?" Erik asked. Laughter edged his words. Christine's protest was ignored.

"Erik--!"

"Let the Vicomte speak, dear," Erik chided gently. "Don't be rude."

Finally feeling as a being taken seriously for the first time in the evening, Raoul responded fervidly. "If I am victor, then you must remove yourself from Miss Daaé's existence! If you are victor, then I… I will respectfully withdraw myself."

"Oh, isn't that lovely?" Erik remarked. "Commendably honorable, monsieur. Very commendable."

"Erik! No!"

"Christine, dear, please do not choose my battles for me," Erik intoned patiently, sounding very much like a father speaking to a small child. "There is nothing to fear. There is a novelty in this that I enjoy."

"Novel-- _Novelty_?" came the incredulous reply. "Please think reason, Erik!"

"It _is_ reason, my dear. I have not fought a satisfying duel in many a year. If your hotheaded noble wishes to provide that pleasure, then by all means let him! By the end of the duel, he will cease to meddle in our affairs --"

"I cannot allow this to happen!"

The Red Death became tense. "Oh? Do you also feel for this boy? Do you not want us to be happy together?"

"Yes, I… do. I… want us to be happy, but… _Erik_…!" Christine repeated helplessly.

"_Then there is nothing to fear_," he said again, soothingly. She looked a little dazed and he turned away from her.

"I accept your challenge, Monsieur le Vicomte. And, tonight, as I am in high spirits, I shall be generous and allow you to select the time, location, and weapon of choice for our little duel."

"I don't -- " Raoul began indignantly, but Erik cut him off.

"Believe me, boy, you shall need every advantage that can be offered you. I would not toss such opportunity away so lightly, if I were you."

Raoul looked straightly up at the Red Death, jutting forth his jaw. "Very well. Tomorrow night, then, on the roof of this opera house."

And then he smirked, tossing out the last sentence smugly. "As for the weapon of choice, you shall bring whatever weapon you feel is appropriate."

The Red Death began to laugh again. "Oh, I shall, Monsieur le Vicomte. Oh, I shall."

And with that, they parted. Raoul was disconcerted to see the way Erik led Christine away; the silent, sheep-like way in which she followed along. Even more disconcerting was the way they seemed to disappear into thin air like a discovered specter, but his calm and resolution was soon recovered.

Down the hall, the forlorn, lonely lamp guttered and discontinued its light, leaving the young vicomte in his white domino costume to stand alone in the darkness while the distant eerie music of the fête continued to play for drunken revelers.

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** We don't need to tell you this, but you know, it's just here. We don't own 'Phantom of the Opera', though we would like to. That belongs to Gaston Leroux and the rest of the wonderful (or not so wonderful… coughcoughFORSYTHEcoughcough…) geniuses who have brought this story to life. Don't bother suing us; we don't make a penny off this.

**Summary: **Raoul and Erik take their rivalry into their own hands.

**I Fought So Hard To Free You:** by _Lady Death & L'Ange de Folie_

* * *

Less than twenty-four hours after le Vicomte de Chagny had left the masquerade, the ancestral home of the Chagny family was understandably in some commotion. Not a soul had slept a wink and violent arguments had railed through the air like fiery volleys of flamed-tipped arrows. And like a city-castle under siege, no ground had been given, neither had any progress been made. While the cooks downstairs prepared a dinner that would not be consumed, the war was reaching its death throes in another part of the house.

"Raoul – my brother – my dear, sweet, beloved brother! This is utter madness," entreated Philippe, the Comte de Chagny as the younger brother tore about the room like a madman. "Absolute recklessness if I ever saw it...!"

"I must protect the honor of the one I love," the vicomte murmured terribly, the dark of his clothing now dusted from rummaging about. Pushing aside a somewhat recently untouched child's violin case, he searched wildly the old wardrobe in the attic and found his prize beneath a moth-eaten military coat. The antique relic in hand, he whirled to face his brother with a face filled with such vindictive conviction that he caused the elder Chagny to take a prudent step back.

"He will see his mistake, and Christine will know it is _I_ who loves her!" Raoul declared vehemently.

"You cannot possibly expect to do this," the comte said in exasperation, taking several quick steps forward. "We live in a civilized era! Have sense!"

"It is _he _who needs sense, not I," Raoul murmured once more, his knuckles gone white from clenching so tightly at the hilt of his father's old dueling rapier.

"You truly are mad," Philippe said in wonder; horror, even. His slate grey eyes were fixed upon his brother in a sort of morbid fascination. "Both of you! _He_ is mad for accepting your challenge and _you _are mad for even offering it up!"

"If I am mad, it is because I am mad with love!" the vicomte declared, now heading to the attic's exit in order to descend and make further his preparations -- so much to be done and so little time to do it in. Should the monster get the upper hand win this duel, he was first of all compelled to write his will. It was the only sensible thing to do.

"For the love of all that is holy, not with a sword…" the elder Chagny pleaded earnestly, dashing quickly across the darkened room to stand in the doorway.

"A sword, _a sword_," Raoul continued to murmur, as if deciding the idea's merit and finding it worthy of contemplation. "Of course, how stupid I am. A sword is cumbersome and he moves quickly, does he not? Why did I not think of this before? A spry fellow who can sail through the catwalks… a sword is a poor choice, thank you, Philippe. You are a true brother."

Back to the old wardrobe he flew, but this time it was an old chest that he desired and he rummaged through it with manic fervor. A sheathed knife was brought to the light from the depths and he gently removed the leather casing to touch the edge. As it was inspected, the gleam in the young noble's eyes became quite terrible and unnatural.

This was not an improvement upon Philippe's mood and he nearly moaned aloud. He rushed forward to take the knife. "This is folly!"

"Philippe!" There was impatience in the boy's voice when he stood, commanding and angry as he brandished the knife with considerable skill. "I learned how to use this when you sent me to the Navy and use it I shall, for I ought to use that which was taught to me. Now stand aside, Philippe."

"She is only a wench from the opera – perhaps a fallen woman at that!" Philippe insisted with temper. "She is not worth your life! As your brother and guardian I _order_ you to cease this madness and see reason!"

"Stand aside!" Raoul repeated, trembling with such anger that it reddened his cheeks and caused his grip to loosen on the hilt of the blade. The tip was pointed at the other. "--You who see it fit to flirt and fraternize with La Sorelli in the halls of the opera! Is she no more than a common opera wench, as well? You cannot deny me my love when you foster your own of the same kind!"

It was Philippe's turn to appear outraged, his face white. "My relationship with Mademoiselle Sorelli is not of the same stuff that your _obsession _is borne of – that is what is it: an obsession! This course of action that you propose is lunacy! If you intend to continue with it, then you risk disownment from this family."

In his mind, the Comte had hoped to curb his brother's irrationality with sharp and decisive threats but once those impassioned words had left his lips, he regretted ever thinking them, for Raoul's face lost its wild appearance and became quite somber with such quick transition that he thought his brother might burst into tears. Yet no tears came: only the recklessness in those blue eyes, receding into complete seriousness as his injury by those words became more apparent.

"Is that truly what you would do, brother?" he asked softly, meeting Philippe's grey eyes. "You would disown me for protecting the woman I love – the woman I have loved since we were small children together on the beaches of Brittany? Then so be it, Philippe. Our paths disengage from one another's at this moment."

The boy pushed past the older man – who made no effort to stop him - as the vicomte descended the stairs. At the bottom of the staircase, he looked up with glistening eyes to his brother. "Goodbye, Philippe. To the roof of the opera house I go. I daresay we shall never see each other again in this life, for regardless of the outcome, we shall be separated until that time. Farewell."

Raoul did not wait long enough to hear Philippe's response if one had been made and traveled briskly up the hallway. Philippe's ultimatum had sobered him and with consequent renewed lucid thought, he briefly entered his own room – memorizing every fond detail, for it should be the last he would ever see of it – and opened the drawer to his bureau.

Separating a pistol from the other contents, he checked for ammunition and finding its state satisfactory, he tucked the weapon carefully into his coat pocket. There it would remain until he needed it; though for a moment, he contemplated leaving the knife behind. What could a knife accomplish that a pistol could not? And would a pistol not be more effective and safer? Despite what logic dictated to his distracted mind, he decided on the former weapon's accompaniment; one could not underestimate Erik. Perhaps it was wise – he would choose on the battlefield that which would be the most advisable and simply discard the other.

The double option did not leave Raoul with the comfort he had hoped; it only numbed his spirit. What would it matter anyway? Not dwelling any longer on what could ultimately determine his survival, like an automaton he turned to his desk. Though the hour was too late for a lawyer, but he set himself down for hardly a moment, and a few notes were scratched upon a page then signed carefully. The vicomte had a few belongings, but he wanted to assure that he had at least some say in their distribution after his passing, should worse come to final worse.

Glancing finally at the clock, Raoul knew that he had enough time to travel to the opera and ascend to the rooftop if he left now. As if to halt procrastination, he knew the carriage was waiting, having arranged everything before, and it was true that he could delay no longer. Yet, he was not afraid; he was resolute in his determination to end sordid affair with honor.

Setting down the fountain pen, the boy slipped from his bedroom, then out the door, and sequentially quitted the Chagny family estate for the final time with no hopes of ever viewing its old, familiar edifices again.

* * *

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Apologies to those who are still following our stories -- half of the partnership has been deprived of an Internet connection since, oh, October or so and snail mail communication is so very slow. Hopefully, things will go much faster once that is corrected.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** We don't need to tell you this, but you know, it's just here. We don't own 'Phantom of the Opera', though we would like to. That belongs to Gaston Leroux and the rest of the wonderful (or not so wonderful… coughcoughFORSYTHEcoughcough…) geniuses who have brought this story to life. Don't bother suing us; we don't make a penny off this.

**Summary:** Raoul and Erik take their rivalry into their own hands.

**I Fought So Hard To Free You:** by _Lady Death & L'Ange de Folie_

* * *

Shortly before the appointed hour, the Vicomte de Chagny arrived at the Rotunda de l'Opéra. So certain was the despondent resignation upon his heart that he sent away his carriage without further thought, and then consulted his watch for the hundredth time that evening. Like a sleepwalker propelled by an inexorable force, he duly took brandy in the concierge, then consulted a workman for directions to the numerous stairways leading to the roof of the Opera.

By the time he reached his destination, the sun was setting upon Paris, spilling the zinc roofs and metal slates of the city with brilliant light. To the young man's distraught mind, the sky appeared like bright blood and many stories below, he heard the nightlife of the district beginning to rouse, the carriages clattering distantly up the Boulevard des Cappucines. Nothing brought him comfort; no sight seemed familiar in this foreign land of industrial skyline. Could this really be his last sight on earth—so strange, so void of friends? It was all so very surreal to him. A light breeze chilled the air. Perhaps he was mad after all.

He turned dizzily away from the view from where he stood on the roof's dome, only for his gaze to chance up towards the dispassionate statue of Apollo. In his present state, it finally calmed him a little to wonder if the presence of the god's likeness might be considered a good omen after all...

"…Before monsieur le vicomte offers his libations and sings his paens, I feel obligated to inform him that after Cyparissus, Apollo is no longer assisting adoring, effete young men such as he used to."

Startled, he compulsively touched the crucifix in his pocket. It was not difficult to identify the owner of that voice, nor did he look far to find his rival eyeing him with perverse delight from the base of Apollo's Lyre. He could somehow hear that insidiously beautiful voice in spite of the distance as intimately as if it were whispering in his ear. Nerves gave way to indignant anger.

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, but such frivolities were the furthest thing from my mind. I was merely considering how I should best nail you to the Lyre like a Breton farm owl," the vicomte responded hotly, taking a step back to better see the skeletal man he scarce recognized as that same Red Death of yesterday night. Bereft of Bal attire, his rival was little more than emaciated skin and bone draped in evening clothes. At least a black silk mask concealed his hideous death's head this time. It made him more tolerable to look upon, though at the expense of appearing like a burglar.

"With a ladder, I shouldn't wonder," his rival said with the lightest hint of coolness. "If you don't mind my impertinence, what in heaven's name are you doing at this excessive altitude? I saw you taking a few stairs too many and wondered."

Such polite insolence was suddenly more than the vicomte could bear.

"What am I doing here?" he cried with indignation, not quite certain if he could be considered responsible for his actions should Erik inform him he had forgotten entirely about their detestable appointment, not after the preparations and anguishing quarrels costing him both family and livelihood.

"I distinctly recall your compliance in an affair of honor!"

That familiar, low laugh met his ears again; patronizing this time.

"Oh no, did you really think we would duel all the way up here? I know you said the roof but please, monsieur, come along this way."

And like a fluid shadow, Erik dropped from the base of the statue with nearly simian aptitude for heights and ledges. He maneuvered silently onto equal ground with the vicomte—who was also his equal in stature—where, for a pointed instant, blue eyes locked tautly with golden orbs. Any onlooker might have expected pistols to come to the ready like a flash, for the duel to begin and degenerate immediately into brawling, but the moment passed: Erik, still and thoughtful, looked away, then silently gestured for the vicomte to follow him round the perimeter of the dome.

"It's a romantic notion, to be sure," he began with an ostensibly convivial air, "dueling for love at the feet of the god of prophesy, but it's so exposed that we would be bound to attract a fuss. Besides, romanticism is really not quite in style these days—you of all people should know that!—not with Mascagni and Puccini having their way at the Théâtre-Italien. I don't understand why they insist on this _verisimo _nonsense, do you? You see, I've always said to everyone that if one wishes for realism, then one should stroll down Saint-Michel instead of subjecting the rest of us to such vulgar whims…"

The young vicomte bitterly envied his rival for his obvious good humors when his own exhausted, grieving heart trembled and battered inside his chest like a wounded sparrow.

"…Ah, this way, monsieur, down this ladder here." That indomitable voice penetrated his brooding thoughts once more in a dark, uncomfortably intimate whisper. "Use both hands and descend after me like so—it would grieve Erik unspeakably if your neck was broken _before he had chance to do it himself_."

"That isn't very gentlemanly," Raoul pointed out disapprovingly with a dark glance at his rival, now slithering down the rungs.

"No, perhaps not," he conceded, "but neither is attempting to engineer the breakup of a happy engagement! You know, that's the fatal flaw I've observed in those with noses—never content with what they have, always wishing for more and more."

But the vicomte hardly heard what else followed. _Engagement?_

Had more transpired between them during the hours Erik entertained Christine like a kept woman in his home, while her poor Raoul suffered in anguish and despair? Or, perhaps for the worse, did the scoundrel dare to refer to the previous night's entrapment when he intimidated her into wearing his ring?

Consumed as he was by emotion, he nearly secured his pistol right then and there; but controlled himself. If Christine's virtue had been molested in any fashion, neither Heaven nor Hell would know his fury, nor would the fullest consequences of the law deter him from satisfying his rage. Papa Daaé could no longer protect his daughter, but he would certainly find an ally in Raoul de Chagny!

He descended after Erik, trembling with miserable fury and at least appreciating the monster's silence, revoltingly self-satisfied though it was. Raoul made no effort disrupt it and neither did his rival, thankfully; Raoul suspected Erik knew exactly how deeply the announcement seared his soul. What outrage could he possibly express that had not already been said? The silence sustained itself over the lines of treacherous iron stairs they traversed in their journey to the lower levels of the roof.

When they stood at last on the flat, pinched spine of the roof's apex running perpendicular to the roof's lyre-rimmed, domed crown, Erik abruptly stopped and consulted a gold timepiece from his pocket.

"Oh, my," he sighed and turned to face his rival. "We'd really best get this over with. Mademoiselle Daaé and I have eight-o'clock reservations at Durand's—at the Place de Madeleine, you know—and I will be severely annoyed if we should be forced to cancel them. I believe I left the terms of this little duel in _your_ care, monsieur. I do hope you've been responsible!"

Again, the sharp pricks of jealousy threatened to upset him, but the harrowing moment was now come to determine the course of his life as well as Christine's. Never had such expectation weighed upon him, yet the adversity somehow bestowed calm upon him unlike anything he had experienced in weeks.

Raoul removed the pistol from his coat and held it out for inspection. When Erik's cat eyes simply flicked to the barrel, Raoul felt prompted to inquire, a little tersely: "Yourself, monsieur?"

Erik then spread his hands wide. "As you see me, so let us take our places."

"I beg your pardon?"

In the confused silence that followed, a ripple of contained mirth tugged at Erik's shoulders.

"I said, as you see me," he repeated like a crucial line in a joke.

"No, this is absurd!" Raoul's voice was tinged with as much fear as it was anger. "I demand to see your weapon! If you will not produce sufficient means of defending yourself, then I propose we postpone this appointment in order to procure means of equalizing—"

"Your vainglory is becoming quite tiresome," Erik interrupted, now with some impatience of his own. The mood changed instantly, dangerously. "One might think you had lost your nerve and were attempting to shy from your commitments. Unless you wish to forfeit and default the victory to me, I suggest we carry on. I should really not like to cancel those reservations—"

It was vicomte's turn to interrupt and he did so with wroth. "Upon my honor as a gentleman, I will not fire upon an unarmed man! For your sake and for mine, I must insist you reconsider!"

"I will not," Erik answered tersely, but Raoul would not be deterred.

"A gentleman observes such affairs with decorum and seriousness," he continued angrily. "Until now, I have given you the benefit of the doubt and treated you as one. Now I demand you accord me the same respect or else I shall renounce my participation in this farce. If this is how you treat Mademoiselle Daaé's honor, then I scarcely wonder how you treat her heart."

Erik's eyes blazed like a flash of hellfire and for an instant, Raoul thought perhaps he'd gone too far. The vicomte prepared to defend himself as Erik's hands knotted into tight fists; but instead of unleashing some terror as Raoul was certain he would, the thin creature simply dipped his fingers into his coat pocket with resentment. Raoul's victorious satisfaction quickly dissipated at the strange cord now draped across his opponent's bony fingers.

"What in heaven's name is that?" It was the only sensible question he could ask.

"Oh, have you not seen one before?" Erik quipped with dark, childlike pride. He did not pause for reply and continued, vengefully. "It is the Punjab lasso, monsieur—a garrote, from the province of India which gives it its name. I daresay they are not so far widespread because, you see, it is a weapon requiring exceptional skill and technique to master…Observe my wrist, how it moves just so…The slightest variation is the difference between leisurely asphyxiation and—rather unpleasantly—sometimes complete removal of the head."

_Crack!_

"…Did you see it? No? Let me try again…"

_Crack!_

"…It takes a practiced eye. Very few can appreciate the subtlety, I have found…"

Crack! Crack! _Crack!_

The monster stopped only when the vicomte's face was perfectly bloodless.

"So you are a trained assassin, too, I see!" Raoul cried.

Erik simply smiled, or at least Raoul fancied he must have done so from the wry manner in which he lowered his head in wicked mockery of all that was modest in the world.

"As you can see, when one has perfected the art of death as I have, the firearm is a comparatively crude method. Of course I would neglect to carry a pistol."

Raoul was silent while his head whirled with horror at this unspeakable nightmare he had unknowingly provoked. He too now shared in the apparently inescapable hell Christine endured in the clutches of this monster who could kill as easily as he drew breath.

"Unquestionably," he softly responded, as if dreaming, in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own. "Monsieur, I suppose your reservations must not be compromised, so let us commence without further ado. On the count of three, each man will turn and take seven paces, after which he shall face his opponent and engage. I cannot feign intimate understanding of your exotic weapon, but for the sake of equality I do hope the range offers you adequate challenge."

With a barely perceptible nod, Erik offered his silent assent.

Could he not be reasonably certain then that was not love, as he feared, but fright that secured Erik her loyalty?

At the appropriate point, they simultaneously turned to take their positions. Rival behind him, Raoul began advancing on the horizon towards the edge of the facade in measured strides.

But if Christine _did_ love the monster, she lacked a competent guardian to tell her that no match could be more unsound. Even at the risk of losing her love forever, for her sake he had no choice but to intervene.

At the seventh count, he squared his shoulders and turned.

If a life without Christine was to be what the Fates allotted him, then he had chosen the only course of action acceptable to him: ending it for her honor at the hand of his rival.

Raoul took aim, and fired.

* * *

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